


On Language as Such and the Language of Man

by asuralucier



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Books, Can you imagine Aziraphale slumming it on Canal Street?, Established Relationship, Language babble, M/M, Marquis de Sade - Freeform, The sordid origins of the DMV, Umberto Eco, Word Play, as you can tell by my tags this is absurd, just an excuse to write about Manchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 12:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16408154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: It was one of their Slightly Downward weekends rather than one of their Ineffably Uplifting ones, where they flipped a coin despite already knowing the outcome -- took the Bentley, and simply drove. Usually up north because Crowley rather liked the North and it needed looking after while Aziraphale only had eyes for his beloved Edinburgh.Aziraphale and Crowley discuss moral odds and ends (in Manchester).





	On Language as Such and the Language of Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> My first crack at _Good Omens_ fic! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to @Lanna for the last minute beta!

“Call me Ishmael,” said Aziraphale, who sounded like he was reading. At least, Crowley hoped he was. He sipped his coffee, which he took black with a sprinkle of Tate & Lyle’s brown sugar; a bit of indulgence never hurt anybody. 

It was one of their Slightly Downward weekends rather than one of their Ineffably Uplifting ones, where they flipped a coin despite already knowing the outcome -- took the Bentley, and simply drove. Usually up north because Crowley rather liked the North and it needed looking after while Aziraphale only had eyes for his beloved Edinburgh. And for what it was worth, Crowley had remembered to book them into one of those rather contemporary monstrosities of a hotel whose whole idea of chic-ness depended solely on the unoriginal-ness of Very Rogue Spelling. Aziraphale had said nothing of their adjoining suites at ABode Manchester right smack in the middle of Piccadilly, except maybe to comment that the “luxe” lobster and prosecco provided upon their arrival were perfectly acceptable but he wasn’t so sure about “luxe.”

(The adjoining suites bit was a nod to their arrangement, which didn’t boast a capital A nowadays but probably should, given how complicated it was getting. At least, Aziraphale thought it was complicated; Crowley, on the other hand, deemed the relatively recent dimensions of their arrangement quite natural and morally ambiguous -- and therefore preferred these newish terms to anything they’d had before. Besides, Crowley did get very cold during nights and Aziraphale had nothing but warmth to give.)

“Whose idea was Babel again?” Crowley said. “As I recall, somebody thought encouraging the multiplicity of tongues would bring forth _culture_.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale pointedly evaded his gaze. “In my defense, it _did_ , kind of. Just took a while. And we both got commended although I got mine for creative long-term thinking rather than for the advancement of general good.” He frowned. 

“You know, that’s very human, that.” Crowley remarked, flicking his tongue out to lap at his coffee. He particularly enjoyed the way that the black cherry and dark chocolate notes made his taste buds tingle, “You probably don’t deserve anything, but here, have something for your efforts and we’ll even call it a commendation as to not hurt your feelings. Kind of American.” 

“In God’s image,” Aziraphale retorted with a little sniff as he turned a page. “ _Imago Dei_. You know, what you so stubbornly refuse to see as Him on a good day.” 

There was something -- no, more than a few things -- Crowley could say to that, but he didn’t. Instead, he opted for something more neutral. It was the weekend, after all, no sense to put oneself to work all the time. There was something to this ‘day of rest’ business, if nothing else, “What are you reading, anyway?” 

Aziraphale adjusted the volume on his knees just so, so that Crowley could read the cover. Leaning his elbow a little precariously atop the hardcover spine of his book, the angel helped himself to the rest of the Prosecco. It wasn’t like Aziraphale could get drunk, and the demon, in a stunningly unoriginal turn, preferred black coffee. 

“ _The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana_ ,” Crowley read aloud. “Sounds rambunctious and inappropriate. I think approve.” 

“God only knows what you’re thinking,” Aziraphale sighed. “But no. It’s very literary. By Umberto Eco, it’s about a book dealer who remembers every book he has ever read but has no recollection of his personal life. You might find it enlightening. Also, I did, as you recall, meet Ishmael. I think he gets a bad rep.” 

“Careful,” said Crowley. “Remember, we live in a world where humans think the writings of Marquis de Sade are literary. But I guess I take your point.” 

“I despair,” said Aziraphale darkly, taking refuge in his Prosecco. 

“Don’t worry,” Crowley slurped the rest of his coffee and gave a satisfying hiss, “You still did ssssement the ssseventeenth century with all that baroque business. The Marquis was but a drop in the ocean.” 

“That,” Aziraphale smiled at him, “is very kind of you.” 

 

Here's a few things to know if you’ve never been to Manchester. The whole city is bloody miserable and accrues more than its fair share of rain. One of its nicknames is even “the rainy city” but trust Crowley, the rain’s even worse in Glasgow. Shropshire had plenty of rain too, but the good kind, the kind that made grass green and queer poets want to write things, thanks to Aziraphale. 

But Crowley still held in his heart (in as much as he had one stuck inside his manlike ribcage) a special place for the Rainy City. If there was one thing that Mancunians really had, it was northern spirit in spades. It was the sort of spirit that said “fuck off” to the annual 87. something inches of rain they got each year and still built interesting insides of things, like the Royal Exchange Theatre on St. Anns Square (which was, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, Manchester’s one saving grace) and a whole line of fuck-off-come-in-to-avoid-the-rain-lads gentlemen’s clubs all along Canal Street. 

“Actually,” Crowley said, “I think they’re called gay clubs, now. Gentlemen’s clubs are something else.” 

“Are they?” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I think I’d know better, wouldn’t I?” But Aziraphale’s query suddenly made him want to question himself. 

“IDs, please.” said the burly bouncer who huffed himself up to block the entryway to somewhere Aziraphale was almost convinced that he really didn’t want to go, but his angelic nature belied him into being agreeable. Crowley had convinced him that he was here on “business” and that Aziraphale absolutely had to be about to assure that a state of equilibrium as per the arrangement was maintained. 

“Really?” Crowley said. “We’re old as the hills.” 

“Which hills?” said the guy. “It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s been a bit of a crackdown lately.” 

“Arthur’s Seat?” suggested Aziraphale helpfully. “Or the Pennines, maybe. For starts. We have other examples.” 

“Is this your fault?” Crowley groused under his breath to the angel. It was an option for one or both of them to quickly change the bouncer’s mind, to be sure, but a queue was forming behind them and maybe it wasn’t the best idea. Although Crowley had done plenty of things precisely because they weren’t the best ideas. 

“I promised you free reign over Manchester, did I not?” Aziraphale held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Although I can’t say I disapprove of gay clubs wanting some sort of order. This whole place needs a bit of a pick me up.” 

“What?” said the bouncer. 

“Never mind,” Crowley got out his wallet. “Here.” 

The bouncer peered at it, made a show too, of bending Crowley’s license. “Aleister Crowley. -- Have I heard of you, somewhere?” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “...You a Satanist? I’m quite popular in those circles. You might even say I’m a big deal.” 

“Or maybe you’re interested in my friend as a rampant bisexual,” Aziraphale said with a preening piss-take smile. The sort of smile that made Crowley want to punch him so very ineffably in the face. “Do you want to see my identification, too?” 

 

“I didn’t know you knew the words ‘rampant bisexual,’” said Crowley; if he really thought about it, maybe he could stand it be a little impressed at the angel’s much improved vernacular. He’d stood at the rammed bar for at least twenty minutes for the sake of buying the angel a Pornstar Martini. His reasoning was that the cocktail came with a shot of Prosecco. Aziraphale had seized a little at the name and then, with some difficulty, pronounced the concoction, “not terrible.” 

“I’m trying to adopt a Roman attitude. I’m beginning to think Ambrose had the right idea,” Aziraphale shrugged, trying to ignore the distracting strobe lights and the very rousing chorus of “It’s Raining Men.” “You know, when in Rome and all that.” 

“Still, I’m thinking that Crowley is losing its bite,” said Crowley a little mournfully sipping a double vodka coke with just a touch too much ice. “Do you remember when people used to recognize me right off?” 

“Pretty sure that’s against the rules of the arrangement,” Aziraphale said, “But you could always change your name to Margaret Thatcher if you wanted something recognizable. You know, with real brand power. It’s not like you’ve got the DMV to contend with. It’s easy enough to mail off a deed poll. You might even help someone go postal.” 

The birth of the U.S. Department of Motor Vehicles and the creation of the six-hour queue was one of Crowley’s proudest achievements circa the early twentieth century. It was also the reason why he vowed never to set foot in America. He hadn’t gotten a commendation. 

“Don’t know if I feel like a Margaret,” Crowley said. “Maybe Marge, at a push.” 

 

On Sunday afternoon, they drove south.

“Just so you know,” said Aziraphale as he adjusted the volume on the Bentley’s radio, “I’ve had a terrible weekend. Although now you’ve instilled in me a terrible craving for lobster.” 

Crowley, doing an even hundred on the M40, looked at the angel out of the corner of his eye. “We can stop by the Ritz for some lobster,” he assented after a moment’s pause, like he really needed to be convinced. “...How do you fancy Sussex next weekend?”


End file.
